


not losing control, just giving it up

by livinginadaydream (orphan_account)



Category: Actor RPF, Disney RPF, Jonas Brothers, Music RPF
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/livinginadaydream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe and Nick are retired, living in Arizona, and spend at least part of their time golfing and making fun of each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not losing control, just giving it up

The sniffling behind him has Joe squinting beneath the rim of his golf cap, trying to tune it out the same way he would those whispering within ear-shot. If subtlety is the goal, he'll play his part. Gripping at his elbow with a gloved hand, Joe tries to focus on the cautious back swing Nick is using to work up to an actual hit. Young and thick-muscled from a summer of lugging around clubs, the man steps forward once and Joe can sense his hesitance. He's been wanting to ask Joe a question for a few days now. Joe waits patiently for him to make his move, but the kid, Craig, has probably been told to keep quiet unless spoken to.  
  
Joe moves one foot back as Nick finally drives the ball down the fairway, skin seemingly slipping down his arm as it's raised in the air triumphantly. He can't help his grin as gravity pulls at his baby brother's excess skin and has it drooping until Nick's arms fall to his side where it then bunches up at his elbow, wrinkly, but baby soft, thin when Joe gets his hand wrapped around it when Nick hovers above him in their bed. He's made himself more accessible, now, and Craig seems to get it, stepping up to Joe and asking quietly, "He uh... takes it pretty seriously. The game?" Nick's checking the bottom of his shows and scanning the course momentarily, trying to get an even better feel for what he'll be moving into. Joe nods, turning his head as much as he can these days, to offer a solemn smile.  
  
Craig laughs when Nick turns back around and points at Joe because he just beat him out for the third time around, driving his ball better, closer to the hole. It makes Joe happy that Nick can still be overly enthusiastic about such simple wins. It isn't necessarily hard to beat Joe at a round of golf. But it makes his brother beam at him when ever he finally turns around after scrutinizing his own hit. The three of them turn to the carts waiting for them on the pavement and Joe sits next to Nick where his brother turns the cart on, the driver.  
  
Every day they choose to play a game, Nick asks for their usual caddy. Since most members of the club either have their own, or prefer none at all, he's usually available. Joe doesn't quite understand it. The kid is nice, sometimes even reminding him of himself, when he breaks into a smile, and of Nick when he doesn't hide a snort of laughter well enough. He's amateur though, barely caddying at all. Driving behind them, he makes certain the clubs make it safely to the next teeing ground, carrying their bags when necessary. He knows the difference between a driver, putter, and iron. Rarely does he offer up advice, however, or study the terrain in order to give an opinion if Nick or Joe suddenly decide to ask.  
  
"Maybe we should contract a  _real_  caddy," Joe offers, when they start moving along the pavement. The roof of the cart doesn't offer much protection from the sun, and in the summer their games get shorter, number of holes played kept to a minimum. The desert is hot and dry, feels like it's turning skin to grains of sand like the small pebbles that get caught up in their shoes, nudging and rousing their nerves to the point of a dull pain until they dump it out.  
  
Voice gone gravelly from his drying throat, Nick answers, "No. He's alright." His grip is light on the wheel, fingers flexing now and again, itching to wrap around the Grip of his favorite driver, to swing again. The worst part, Nick's told him, in bed while he's looking over the sports section for a second time, about golfing is the distance between holes. He'd rather a digital field, Joe supposes. Where when one hole is sunk, the field rearranges before him within seconds and he can put his driver to the test almost immediately.  
  
Most people see golf as a leisurely game. Something that doesn't need to be rushed, more there, actually, for how much time it does take, giving one time to think and detach from the rest of the world. Joe thinks Nick's too good for that. He thinks his brother's got some kind of insatiable urge to work and get things done. He doesn't mind practicing, not at all, so it isn't that he's lazy or impatient, necessarily. It's just that the little pauses add up. Nick doesn't want to waste away. And he's got that chip that says 'retiree' and he doesn't want to screw up what time he has left. Of course, Nick doesn't say any of that. He just purses his lips when he passes the obituary section. He'll rub at his joints and Joe will only catch him out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise, Nick seems to ignore the ache building in his bones. Joe wishes that he'd slip a pill into his daily routine to help, but he knows Nick is afraid of what it'd do to his blood sugar, even if the doctors say that in most cases, it seems not to affect the insulin.  
  
"He doesn't do his job," Joe explains, almost sounding uninterested in his own topic of conversation. The cart rolls to a stop as Nick's foot lowers on the break.  
  
Nick's gaze seems to skim the line of trees along the edge, or perhaps he's attempting to place as many flags as possible as he adjusts his sock in his shoe, fingers digging in at the arch. It slid down, bunched up at an awkward point underneath his foot. He's finished straightening it by the time his eyes settle somewhere around Joe's chest and he answers, "He's doing fine. He'll learn."  
  
A satisfied smile is let loose on Joe's face, directed toward his little brother. It started with the landscaper. Nick had printed off a list off the plant life that thrives in Arizona, had carefully marked which of those he found to be the most appealing. Going by season, he formed a rough layout, placing Desert Pincushions alongside Apache Plumes, the Devil's Claw mixed in with the Mojave Aster. He'd even enclosed the information in a folder and sent it off to the landscaper well before the artist would have begun planning.  
  
Still, the fellow, a Mr. Riggs with a bit of a belly, yellowing fingernails and sun-reddened skin, showed up with plans that hadn't matched anything Nick had suggested. It was beautiful of course, but Nick was the kind of man who made ten-year plans rather than five. Joe had been surprised enough, when Nick nodded at the papers laid out across the top of his polished desk, lifted his hand to shake on an agreement, that he pulled Nick aside. Fitting his palm in Nick's where it hovered between Riggs and himself, Joe had turned his brother so that he was facing him, watching as Nick's eyes settled patiently on his face.  
  
He'd explained to Nick how it could sometimes be funny to be sarcastic, but to make this man think he had a business deal when he didn't seemed kind of pointless, juvenile. Nick had smiled slowly, squeezed at Joe's hand and then turned back. "It's great, Eric, thank you." Nick didn't even complain when the plans were underway. And he'd never complain once it was finished anyway, considering it'd be his responsibility to stop anything from happening that shouldn't. Joe's ears had felt a little empty, honestly.  
  
After that it was the maid who, when she dusted, moved things around, on their dresser, on their kitchen counters, on Nick's desk, and he rarely lifted fingers to knead at his forehead as though a headache was prickling up behind his eyes.  
  
"You've become an implacable old man, Nicholas. You're going to make everyone hate you, you know," Joe teases. He pokes at Nick's cheek with his gloved finger and Nick smiles obediently, dimple still visible in the soft lines etched into his face by time. He doesn't look old though, even now, where the gray and silver have mixed in with the dark brown. His eyes are the youngest part of him, Joe can see. They're still very much alive, and maybe their brightness makes the lines on Nick's face look less dull, and more like rewards, ribbons of glory right under his skin.  
  
Nick's very sure of himself when he answers a bit jauntily, "Yes, even you. But you won't leave me."  
  
"And why's that," Joe asks, laughter already formed in his throat and ready.  
  
"Who else would take care of you when you're incontinent, hmm?" Joe smiles at him, for a moment and then straightens his face before leaning in, lips puckered into two thinning lines.  
  
"Only you, darling," he says, trying to sound like Cary Grant, Nick guesses, but missing. Joe still doesn't grasp the fact that when one's lips are forced together, it makes it nearly impossible to speak intelligibly. Even if he were to point that out, it would be useless. Joe's tendencies tell him that he'd brush it off because  _Nick_  had understood him, and that was the only purpose in the first place.  
  
Before Joe gets any closer, Nick sweeps both their hats off their heads, and smirks at when his older brother looks at him with happily narrowed, complimenting eyes. They kiss for a moment, a few pecks, mostly ending up either just above, or below each other's lips. When Nick jostles his cap on his head until it's sitting comfortably, and Joe is grabbing at his hat held just out of reach in his brother's hands, Nick says, "We'll see about that though, won't we?"  
  
"Oh please, Mr. Impotence. I'm the only one you can even get it up for anymore," Joe says, poking at Nick's stomach in order to distract him while his other hand grasps his cap. Nick's mouth opens a bit, a door unhinged for just a moment, eyes narrowed. Joe scoffs at the look and puts his hat on. It doesn't sit perfectly like it does on Nick's, but it's fine for him, keeping the sun out of his eyes as he steps carefully out from the cart, ignoring their caddy who's standing almost-patiently under the tree nearby. "You know I love you." He waits for Nick to give up the game he's never been good at playing, before he adds, "Ya old, decrepit man." Nick shakes his head, but steps out into the sun again, reaching out a hand for the club their young caddy will give him, knowing it will be the right one.


End file.
